


Time Pieces

by FelisOsellis



Category: Forever (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Changing Tenses, Dean - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Drabbles, Early Work, F/M, Genderbending, Human Castiel, My First Work in This Fandom, Rating May Change, Supernatural AU - Freeform, Swearing, Work In Progress, castiel - Freeform, girl!castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 14:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3612633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelisOsellis/pseuds/FelisOsellis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the 20th Century and he'd learned the hard way: 'never get attached'. He'd lived long enough to know better. But then Cassandra Novak brazenly waltzed into Bobby's antique's shop to tell him in no uncertain terms that the 18th Century Japanese puzzle box he was holding, was a fake. </p><p>This was not going to end well. </p><p>Supernatural AU Drabble (s) in various order/times/places. Hints/loose cross-over with Forever (TV).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> So, this has been a LONG time in posting and I thought I'd finally share. Word of warning, its probably VERY OOC, for all characters (I'll try to curb my enthusiasm).  
> For the moment there might just be this chapter. If not, the timeline's pretty fluid and I'll try to post new chapters every two weeks or so. I'd hoped to eventually set this along a background of Forever with some familiar Supernatural faces popping in and out. 
> 
> Word of warning - there might also eventually be some references/words/thoughts that are time/region/place typical. No offence meant. 
> 
> Further Disclaimer:  
> This is only for a bit of fun. Nothing untoward happening here.

Chapter One: Seattle 2007. 

 

He wasn’t quite sure how he ended up in her apartment building. The only pressing thing that was clear, was that taking three flights of stairs rather than the elevator in his current state would have been a bad idea-not that standing still in an upwardly moving metal box was such a good idea either and he’s pretty sure some poor cleaning lady is going to get a surprise from the imprint of his face on the mirror. He reaches her floor, or rather the floor he assumed was hers and took what he hoped was a moment to orientate himself before lurching out onto her landing, trailing water and sodden shoes. He took another few seconds to dig out the crumpled, damp slip of paper that held her address from a back pocket and nearly lost his balance, after quickly reading the text once – a second glance might have made him throw up into a nearby potted plant- he was soon confident that amongst the red carpeted floor and the white doors, was her home, or he could just have the completely wrong building – his luck had a way of doing that. 

He checked the piece of paper again - No. 13 - and flinched reflexively, only she would live in an apartment with _that_ on the front. He knocked anyway, praying that it worked, knowing that he neither had the sense of self nor any kind of fare to get back; not that he wanted to anyway. The nightmares had driven him out, driven him to his current state; and no, it wasn’t an excuse but by _God_ he felt better for it. He knocked on the door loudly, and was absently aware of telling it - or his fist - he wasn’t sure, to be quiet, when it swung open. 

He was immensely glad that she opened the door, and more so didn’t shut it back in his face.He never knew she wore glasses till he was faced with her very unimpressed countenance he had a feeling he might have told her as such, instead of saying the proper thing, which would have been ‘Hi’ or maybe ‘can I come in’ more likely ‘I’m sorry for barging in on you when most sane people would be asleep’, but the synapse between his head and tongue had been sufficiently shot to hell by the amount of alcohol he had consumed. 

Water dripped off his nose -he tried _very_ hard not to find it funny. 

It wasn’t so late, although the time Jo had kicked him out of the bar with cab money in his hand was anyone’s guess. He noted that her clothes looked different, more comfortable her hair was in array; she looked rumpled and comfortable – he had a feeling he told her this too (maybe the happy little buzz he’d thought he’d had had going had been a couple of shots clear).He thought she’d looked a little shocked at opening the door – probably after seeing the state he was currently in; after all purple and black look didn’t look very good on just _anyone_. He must have looked desperate, drunk, unhappy, beat up and more like a drowned rat than a person – probably all of the above, in fact, most _likely_ all of the above- to receive the patented Novak eye roll of ‘what the hell?’ before she let him in. He would admit later that he was quite impressed with the way that he managed to keep upright as she swung the door wider and he stepped through. 

The space was _nice:_ clean, cosy, muted, with a couple of diplomas, pictures along the walls and photographs dotted here and there. He thought that he might have pointed that out to her,  the relatively small space (small in comparison to the brownstone he had on the west side), was low lit; a small table in front of some decidedly comfortable looking chairs and a sofa that was piled with paper and pens sat next to a side table - a glass of wine sat next to a stopped bottle.  He noted the stopper because out of everything it seemed the most out of place and the most familiar- in the shape of a blue and gold glass teardrop – he then remembered that he had bought that for her as a last ditch Christmas present from a gimmicky stall at JFK. The glass looked half full and the bottle half empty, the cushions and blanket were just the right depth of depressed to know that she had obviously _had_ been comfortable. 

His onset regret as he recognised that he had disturbed her ground to a halt as he felt a warm hand around his wrist that tugged him towards the sofa. The contrast made him realise just how cold he was and he shivered. She must have obviously caught on because it looked like she made a face at him before tugging him down to the chair. Cas disappeared for a moment and brought back a huge navy blue towel, enough that it must have wrapped around her at least five times – he got rid of that thought firmly- and watched mutely as she pulled up the blanket over both him and the towel. 

Dean felt the warmth stick the wet clothes to his skin and he shivered, he didn’t care; the smell of her brand of fabric softener, perfume and just _her_ settled on his shoulders and all around him. It blocked out the cold and more, he felt it could block out his daemons, his nightmares and his guilt. He pulled it around him, for a moment seeing how far he could go to burying himself into the softness while wondering when the world had picked up a spinning motion. He hadn’t noticed when she had gotten up, or when the kettle had been switched on or when the coffee had been made; he was usually _so_ observant about these things- well _not_ really- but the idea made him feel better.  He hadn’t forgotten that she hadn’t spoken to him since he stepped through her doorway in the middle of the night and from the look she was giving him now she was expecting an explanation – a thorough one. He looked back, opening his mouth to say and to employ any number of excuses, platitudes, even compliments but none of them seemed to want to make an appearance and she was looking at him far too intently and, indeed, soberly for him to try anything that would  shift the attention.  He looked away, looking at anything and everything in the room as guilt and shame suddenly rose through the haze of inebriation that he had been so comfortable in a short moment ago. 

“Cas-” the tone of his voice must have implied his reluctance because she pulled on her I’m –not- taking any- of- Dean -Winchester’s- bullshit –face. 

“Dean” she cut him off firmly with a ‘tell –me” tone of voice, she sounded so very stern British Governess talking to a very small naughty child just then-well she usually managed to sound like that when talking to him. He sighed, ‘great, just what he wanted’. Maybe this had been a bad idea after all. He hadn’t realised he had said all this out loud until he moved to get up and found her hand was warm and steady and firmon his arm, and her eyes as they bore into his own were impossibly blue and soft around the edges and wore an expression half exasperation half pity and the dim light made her look _effulgent_ and her lips looked so _perfect_ –

Dean sighed; he probably shouldn’t tell her that. 

*

 

The Next Morning:

It was a beady-eyed _thing_ and it was _staring_ at him, not that inanimate objects shouldn’t stare but for Dean Winchester it was a little too much. The _light_ that streamed into his face, accompanying the headache that pounded into his skull was a little too much, but the _thing_? _That_ was just _creepy_. Who _had_ something like that in their house? He then realised a few things all at once: that he was half asleep with his mouth open, face pressed into something that smelt _really_ nice and nauseating at the same time and that he was warm, not just passed out on a park bench- because _that_ had happened once and only once and would _not_ happen again (he ignored the very Sam sounding voice in the back of his head that said ‘yeah right’) – or on his own sofa because this one was _far_ too comfortable and didn’t smell mouldy. He gingerly peeled himself off the sofa and out of the line of sight of the beady eyed thing- it came to him: 

“History professor... _right_ ” 

Then 

“Fuck” 

Apparently being alive since the 1800’s was not a precursor to common sense, nor, might he add enough of a tolerance for alcohol. Dean rubbed at his face, wincing as his body protested the movement. And the bruises. 

Two hundred years.

You’d think he’d have grown a thicker skin. 

The beady eyed thing, at second glance was a carved wooden face, obviously of some great cultural importance to some _one_ or group, but for Dean it was just odd. Speaking of odd. 

It was quiet both outside and in, he looked around. The bottle, glass and cups – he had told Cas that if he had to be sober then she would too and she had replied that _she_ was sober; he was just drunk enough for the both of them – were gone, he was in different, drier clothes: sweats and a tee that fit quite well and there were a good couple of blankets, one thrown off him and pooled at his feet and another had been twisted around him like a fluffy garrotte. 

_Then_ the realisation decided to slap him severely upside the head like a giant trout – which just caused his head to hurt _even more._

Oh great and fluffy _lord_ he had gone to Cassandra Novak’s _house_ while _drunk_ out of his head, _and_ from what he had remembered –which wasn’t much mind you- had basically spilled the whole of his life story – _that_ he could remember or piece together... _as well as_ a great deal of his feelings that he was sure he wouldn’t admit to _himself_ much less to someone who he casually-randomly-worked with or asked for advice on topics when the world wasn’t going to end from the evil forces trying to invade it at any one time . Well, that was _great_ wasn’t it? The world could just spit him out now, _thanks- now_ that it was done chewing him a new one. 

He sighed and rubbed his face and intently prayed for some kind of aspirin or a _sedative_ , maybe, at least some of the _common sense_ he was born with to return to him and explain just why it was a bad idea to drink and that alcohol was a vile, vile substance and had no place in civilised society or the blood stream of someone as intelligent as himself. 

Deciding to move by untangling himself from the blanket then proved far too hard a task and resulted in him rolling off the sofa– earning him a bruise on top of a bruise- not to mention strengthening the pounding headache when he smacked into a table leg, causing a bottle of water to smack into the side of his face that didn’t feel as if it had missed the door and went straight for the pavement. Momentarily defeated, he lay, on his side staring at the underside of the sofa, dimly wondering where the bottle came from; wondering why, by all that was holy, the world had decided to turn mean and where _Novak_ held the pharmaceutical drugs.Then, as if to answer his question, and, offer an apology, an aspirin dislodged by his game of caterpillar fell in front of his nose

-‘ohthankgod’ 

– _now_ all he needed was to try...and...get...his...hands...free-

‘Thunk’

“...ow”

Well, it could have gone worse.

*

He heard rather than saw her get up roughly an hour later as she thudded into something cursed softly and came into the little kitchenette rubbing a serious case of bedhead and peering around as if the very daylight offended her.He huffed a laugh. She was either completely unaware he was here or she had decided to ignore him fully. Either way, he felt suddenly very domestic standing at a stove as she rooted around for a cup (he eventually handed her with a soft ‘ _thanks’_ in reply) and the thought left him instantly amused. An immediate sense of fondness and a memory of a similar time suddenly came to him unbidden, only it contained far less clothes and sunlight in black ha-

He ruthlessly stamped on the remainder of that thought before it had more than a chance to bubble up and focused on the food; 

_‘yeah, food. That’s really what you want to focus on and not how she looks in a t- ‘_

_stomp. stomp. stomp. stompstompstompstomp.Doused in holy water and set alight_. 

He had bacon ready, and pancakes and was trying not to burn the eggs and she milled around seemingly still without noticing that he was there. It wasn’t until she went to the fridge,(he smoothly shuffled out of the way) presumably to look for the milk – he still had it out- that she noticed he was there. She stared at the side of his head scrutinising it for a moment; he could feel the wheels in her head turning. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked. It wasn’t really a question. 

“You’re a belligerent morning person, you know that?”

She huffed as she sat at the table, cup in hand a muttered “You _know_ what belligerent _means?_ ” came from behind her cup. 

Wow, that was…well, _snippy_ and stung a little if he was honest.He said as much- blithely of course - and Cas made a noise in response, it wasn’t an apology. “I was a little...drunk...and wet...thanks for the clothes by the way...” 

U _nderstatement_ and then _liar_ came the little Sam voice in the back of his mind, which he ignored, but not without the feeling that he’d have rather stayed _wet_ than wear another guy’s stuff. 

The rational, un-jealous side of his brain kicked in and saved him before it showed on his face.  

So, she had sweats and t-shirt in men’s sizes, she’d mentioned once that she had a _brother_ , _brothers_ \- plural - right? Right. He was going to ignore the little happy feeling that bubbled up as he remembered that.She was silent for a moment. He did his best to ignore the presence of her in his personal space. 

“Oh... _oh.”_ He winced, wishing she hadn’t made it sound _quite_ _that_ bad. 

“More coffee?” he asked. _Smooth_ way to change the subject off of your debilitating low tolerance for alcohol, Winchester.

“No thanks...tea.” she said by way of explanation

“True Brit, huh?”

“What gave it away...” she replied dryly over-emphasising her accent. He rolled his eyes, it was too early for sarcasm. Make that any other sarcasm but his own. 

He plated the remainder of the eggs, plunked one plate down in front of her before helping himself to bacon and syrup. She made a face, muttered something else about ‘Americans’ and downed more coffee before pulling the bacon towards herself. They ate in silence for a few moments, Dean taking the time silently praise and savour this century’s availability of all things meat - the depression, rationing, frontier life had still left a gap that Sam had constantly joked would never be filled. 

“Not that i don’t appreciate a cooked breakfast. Which I do, by the way. I’m currently trying not to feel awkward that you’re sat in my kitchen, or that you knew where all my pans where and managed to get all this ready without waking me up” 

“Well, you do sleep like the dead” he replied swiftly - yeah that and I can’t exactly say ‘oh I just performed a really bad exorcism here in the fifties that killed two people’. 

She sniffed at him in reply. Before her mind wandered off to somewhere else, he almost joined her in hazy daydreaming when noticed she had begun to suddenly look at him with pointed focus. Head tilted and eyes narrowed as if she were trying to pick apart his existence. He didn’t fidget awkwardly.

_Nope._  

He had an itch. 

And that cough right there. It was just to clear his throat. And look! That bit of wall was flaking. And well, ugh. Now his eggs were cold. Maybe if he just…moved them…over…

Nothing awkward about it. 

At all. 

Juice! Juice would help. He had an itch after all. The ceiling - was that part of the original…his train of thought derailed as he made the mistake of looking at her.

There was a spark of mischief swimming in her eyes as she stared at him over the rim of her tea. He felt the dread follow his coffee down to sit lumped somewhere near his middle. 

“So…effulgent?” 

This was going to be a long day. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always gratefully appreciated even if its just for this one chapter :) Thanks for reading!


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